


Broken Butterfly

by ForgetMeNatz (Chillyfoot)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Butterflies, Existential Crisis, Gen, Introspection, Painting, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 21:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20731325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chillyfoot/pseuds/ForgetMeNatz
Summary: Ignatz contemplates the meaning of his life (or perceived lack thereof). Minor spoilers for Golden Deer route and Ignatz-Byleth supports. Nothing past the timeskip.





	Broken Butterfly

The first thing I remember about Garreg Mach was the butterflies. Butterflies in my stomach, butterflies in the breeze. In that moment, I was one with them. We shared youth, potential, curiosity about our place in the world. There seemed to be no better time to be me. "I'm going to make this the best year of my life."

I can at least say I've had better years than this.

The trust I attend the Officers Academy on comes from my family, not a fund. I aspire toward knighthood, in the service of a noble house. My parents worked toward a comfortable future together, and wanted mine to be even better. "Ignatz Victor, esteemed knight of the Leicester Alliance. Imagine that."

Any image of my future that I can conjure up fades faster than watercolor in a stream.

I lack the attributes of a proper knight. Close combat is not my forte. Anyone with a decent weapon can knock my goals and I to the floor. I demonstrate courtesy without courage. No one cares how many doors I hold if I can't squeak out "You're welcome." I can't ride a horse. There, I said it. I'm terrified of the prospect: all this power at my sole command. Power in my shaking hands. I buckle where I stand.

Who does this make me instead?

Every decision I made is ultimately mine. The power of the divine will not fix my transgressions. Is there power in the divine? The goddess did not behold herself to the boy whose glasses and desperate tears gleamed in the starlight she brought him.

Every experience I had is ultimately mine. I wish to the same stars that Raph's parents didn't have to die the way they did. I don't cry much anymore, not for them, but I lost out on so much of life and a friendship worth more than my tuition could possibly pay back.

Even with all of me laid out like this, I still don't know who I am. All I can do is push my pain to the back of my mind. The palette knife is a good tool for that. I brush off my resentment, cover my disappointment in oil paint. As the setting sun dries on my canvas, dread rises in me like the waning moon. I had so many better things to do.

But what's done is done. All I can do now is cradle the wing of a broken butterfly and pray that I don't break too.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually an exercise in muse handling and writing without dialogue, as well as a way for me to get my existential dread out in an adequately healthy manner. It turned out surprisingly good for something written at one in the morning.


End file.
